That Inconceivable Thing Known as Having a Life
by InsanityInReverse
Summary: Matthew keeps to himself and spends most of his time painting. Well, that is until Gilbert showed up at his door with a handful of mail, bringing along with it his own brand of 'awesomeness,' that, with a little work, might be able to bring Matthew out from his life of obscurity. From then on, it's only a matter of time before Matthew gets the hang of having a life. [PruCan]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N **;; This is the longest title I've ever had for any of my stories. I know to say that is pointless, but frankly, I don't care. It's important to me… for some reason. Anyway, welcome to **TITKHL **(yeah, it's getting shortened), a story that was thought up between trying to sneak an extra-large coffee into my classroom without my teacher noticing (I succeeded, by the way. Go me!) and having a conversation with someone I didn't really know about the aspects of having a life. According to how they defined it, I apparently don't have one.

Those two events somehow led to me creating this story. It will be split up into five parts, so I should be able to finish it relatively soon. Give it about a month, and I should be able to mark 'complete' on this story. I was originally going to write this as an EngCan, but England just wasn't working for me today, so I switched to Prussia. Therefore, this story is now a PruCan – like I don't have enough of those on my account already.

Canada's an artist in this story. He also has social anxiety issues – which are slightly based off of my own, but lessened. Like you guys haven't seen that before.

Enjoy, maybe?

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**That Inconceivable Thing Known as Having a Life**

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**Part One:  
**_**Meet New People**_

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Matthew Williams pushed his thick glasses higher up on his nose, crossing his arms over his chest, one of his hands still gripping a paint brush, and contemplating the colourful canvas propped up in front of him. The background was still blank – but that was hardly a surprise, he always saved the background for last; the background was always the hardest part of the piece for him, what with choosing something that would fit the mood of the subject, something that would fit around the main subject of his piece, not little too large nor too small, something that would complement, but not draw away attention from the subject – but the face of the old man was almost done.

There were half-empty tubes of oil paints scattered around his feet, some crinkled and rolled to the cap to edge out the last few drops of paint from the inside, and a handful of brushes sat in a can of cleaning solution on the little side table just an arm's length away. This was comfortable. This was what Matthew was used to. He didn't live with anyone else, and had never had the want to – he never had to worry about disturbing anyone but himself with his late night painting sprees, waking up at all hours in the night to his screeching alarm clock. No one had to deal with his erratic habit of making pancakes when he got particularly bored, often ending up making enough to serve at least eight people. No one had to deal with his early morning irritability, before he was able to have his first cup of coffee, where the littlest annoyances would drive him to the edge until the caffeine kicked in and those little nuisances would only fade into the background, fading into obscurity once again until the next morning, where the process would repeat all over again.

It was a routine, and it was one that Matthew was not eager to break out of too soon.

He was comfortable.

His tips and lengths of his fingers, all the way up to his wrist, were stained, looking bruised from the darker pigments of paint, and there were globs of skin-coloured paint stuck under his fingernails. It almost looked as though he had been finger painting – which wasn't such a bad idea; perhaps he would use the style in his next piece. His agent was always encouraging him to try new things, after all.

Matthew looked down at himself, suddenly reminded that he would have to do the laundry at some point today. The shirt he was wearing was stained with the ink he had used in his last piece, as were his worn jeans. He had painted, molded, drew, cut, pasted, and used however many other techniques of art in this outfit, and it showed. It seemed as though these clothes had been with him through hell and back, and were barely hanging on. His shirt was limp and shapeless, and his jeans were stained to the point that if Matthew didn't know any better, he would have hardly guessed that he was even _wearing _a pair of jeans. Well, he was at least glad that it was only his own clothes he had to take care of.

He supposed that was just another advantage to not having a roommate – he didn't have to deal with anyone's shit but his own.

Matthew pulled the brush in a low arch under the man's drooping eye, where his skin had looked purple and heavy. All he had to finish were the very last finishing touches on the man's face, and then he could set his sights exclusively on creating an appropriate background. He had been vaguely thinking about sketching out the background of moving cars and blurred faces. Nothing had been particularly outstanding about the man, which was exactly what had struck Matthew when he had seen the man crossing the street earlier in the day.

Ironically, it was usually the mundane that Matthew found most aesthetic, the most difficult to capture in their daily life of normalcy. Beautiful people were incredibly easy to draw. Their faces had not one imperfection, their eyes perfectly aligned with each other, their nose not crooked in the slightest, their lips full and soft and smooth. But it wasn't the same with those who were considered 'mundane.' It was the prosaic people that were challenging to Matthew, the ones who deserved the most attention, those who had flaws and perhaps wished to be perfect, but were aware that it was hope that they would never able to grasp within their hands. That was the reason why he had moved to the city. New York City was the perfect place to find the most commonplace type of person – the commoners, if you will.

Matthew pulled the brush around the eyes again, humming thoughtfully to himself as he did so. He was as commonplace as they came, just like most others. There was nothing particularly defining about him, except that he, unlike so many who had tried and failed before, had managed to become something of a successful artist. Other than that, he was as normal as the old man he had chosen to paint out of the crowds of busy New Yorkers. He sighed as his blond bangs fell into his eyes, blowing them up irritably and raising his other hand to tuck them behind his ear once again. Both his agent and his brother had been pestering him, trying to talk him into getting both contacts and a haircut. Matthew, at least, was beginning to see their point on the haircut bit.

The Canadian looked down to his wrist, noticing the two rubber bands that clung almost painfully to his skin. He captured his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment, considering, before he plucked the rubber bands off, using them to tie his bangs back into a pair of small pigtails. Matthew sighed, swallowing, and was incredibly thankful that his window curtains were closed. He felt ridiculous, but at least no one would see him. He just hoped that Alfred wouldn't drop by for another 'heroic' visit to spend time with his favourite big brother – which he only had one of, but Matthew digressed. He probably should have been appreciating the fact that Alfred – who was always busy, who always has something to do, who always has people to be with, people to see, who met and made friends every single day of his life, just as he always had – even wanted to spend any time with him, anyway.

If Alfred was a supernova, then Matthew was a white dwarf – small, insignificant, and not bright enough to be noticed.

They were drastically different people, his brother and him, but he supposed, in a way, they were closer than most brothers tended to be.

Just as Matthew released another sigh, preparing himself to make yet another swipe under the old man's eye, he heard a pair of footsteps stop outside his door. Usually, Matthew didn't bother to pay attention to people in the hallway – he didn't bother them, and they didn't bother him; it had been that way since he had moved in, and he wasn't really expecting a sudden burst of kindness from any of the fellow people on his floor – but then again, none of them had ever specifically stopped outside of his apartment.

Matthew watched the door, head cocked in curiosity, eyes narrowed in thought. The footsteps hesitated for a moment, almost as if the person was debating something, and Matthew waited for the telltale knock, but was surprised to find several envelopes being pushed under his doorframe instead. The Canadian frowned, dipped his brush into a cup of water, and approached the door.

The envelopes by the door looked strangely like the bills he hadn't been receiving for the last couple of weeks. What the hell?

Matthew blinked, confused, and unlocked the door, opening it wide enough for him to poke his head out into the hall. There was only person in the hallway – a man walking back towards the elevators and staircase, in the opposite direction of Matthew's door, shoulders hunched and hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His jeans were ripped almost beyond recognition – they looked about ready to rip completely and fall off at any moment – and he had a bright red hood pulled over his head.

"Hey!" Matthew called out, instinctively pulling his head back into his apartment a bit as he did so, wary of the stranger. He had never seen this particular man before, and he had met or at least seen most of the tenants of the apartment at least once or twice. But he wanted to see why exactly the man had shoved what appeared to be Matthew's mail under his doorstep, so he was willing to take a chance and talk to him. "Wait a second!"

The guy looked over his shoulder, but his face was still mostly shaded by the hood. Matthew, however, could pick out very, very pale skin and a slightly crooked nose, as if it had been broken at some point. Even from a distance, Matthew figured the man was about the same height as he was. "Yeah?"

Matthew hesitated. "Um… what were you doing?" He held up the mail that had been shoved under his door, waving it in the air slightly.

The Canadian glanced the man up and down, noticing the three studded belts hanging around the guy's waist, as well as the half-tied combat boots pulled up over his dark jeans. He swallowed nervously. He looked to be the kind of guy that would beat up Matthew for his lunch money. Or, you know, just for the hell of it.

Matthew tried not to flinch as the man began to walk towards him, belts shaking with every step. The guy looked intimidating, that was for sure. When he got close enough, standing directly in front of Matthew's apartment doorway, he pulled back his hood, giving Matthew an expectant stare beneath raised eyebrows.

His eyes were a deep, bright red – one of Matthew's favourite colours to mix – and he had short, messy white hair that hung down a bit below his ears. His mouth, which looked like it was made to pout, was set in a hard, straight line, very obviously looking Matthew over.

However, all intimidation factors faded from the man's face as a smirk twitched his lips upwards, a twinkle of amusement appearing in his eyes. "Whoa, kid, didn't mean to scare you. Relax." He held up his hands in a peaceful gesture, and Matthew began to feel his stomach loosen slightly. He could feel a blush warming his cheeks. Had he been that obvious? "I didn't want to bother you. I just keep getting your mail. Well, not all of it. Just the not-so-awesome stuff – the bills, mostly."

Matthew shrugged. "That's all there is."

"Oh… okay." The man didn't seem to know exactly how to respond to that, his expression faltering slightly. "Well, then _all _of your mail has been coming to my apartment. I live right below you."

"Okay." Matthew nodded, suddenly remembering why he hated interacting with other people. He sucked at it. "That's, uh, neat?"

The guy just laughed, a hissing sound that sent cold shivers up Matthew's spine, causing goosebumps to pop out all over his arms and the back of his neck. He rolled his eyes, still snickering. "Okay, whatever, kid. My name is Gilbert, by the way. And you…"

"Matthew."

"You, Matthew," Gilbert continued, "have something on your nose."

Matthew's eyebrows hiked up, and he raised one of his hands, running a finger along his nose. When he pulled it away, holding it in front of his eyes, the tip was a dark shade of violet. Suddenly, Matthew remembered his make-shift pigtails, and felt his face break out in heat. He was sure he was as red as Gilbert's eyes were by the time he finally managed to get out, "I'm painting."

Gilbert rocked back and forth on his heels, an excited glint in his eyes. "Awesome. Can I see?"

The Canadian bit his lip, hesitant. The only people who had been inside his apartment since he had moved in was his brother and his agent, the latter who only stopped by every month or so with a commission and makeover tips. Alfred showed up every few days or so, but his visits were erratic in nature. His brother could show up every day for an entire week, and then Matthew wouldn't see him or hear from him for an entire month, until Alfred remembered that he actually still had an older brother. "Um…"

Again, Gilbert's expression faltered, his megawatt smile fading into an uncomfortable frown. He stepped back slightly. "That so wasn't awesome. I didn't realize how creepy that sounded until I said it."

"It wasn't creepy," Matthew assured him, despite that yes, he completed agreed with Gilbert. "My place is just… kind of a mess right now. Maybe you could come over another time?"

He really hoped Gilbert would say no.

Another smile, though not as bright as the first one, spread across Gilbert's face. "Awesome! I'll just drop by sometime, 'kay?"

"Uh, sure. Okay." Matthew swallowed uncomfortably. He had gone through his entire life with only a handful of friends, and if he was being honest with himself, Matthew didn't suddenly want to start changing that now. His brother was the social butterfly of their little pair. He had come to appreciate the little perks of his life of seclusion.

Gilbert pulled his hood over his head, spun around, and walked very quickly back down the hall. "See ya!" he called over his shoulder, but just as Matthew was about to close the door, he thought he heard Gilbert muttering "stupid, stupid, _stupid_" under his breath just as he reached the elevator.

He doubted he would see Gilbert again.

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**A/N **;; Right, so I'm feeling a little off about how well exactly I portrayed Canada and Prussia. I can usually do it pretty well, but, uh… I might come back and edit some of the dialogue in this chapter at a later date.

Stay awesome, guys.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N **;; This chapter is for you, **B.A **– or I should I say **TurtlesAndCanada**, now? – just because you asked nicely.

Enjoy, guys.

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**That Inconceivable Thing Known as Having a Life**

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**Part Two:  
**_**Make Conversation**_

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Only a mere two weeks later, Matthew was surprised to find Gilbert knocking on his door, decked out with a beaded eyebrow ring and green tips in his hair. Matthew did a double take as he looked through the peep hole in his door, unsure if it was really the same neighbour he had met a couple weeks ago. Then again, one look at his eyes confirmed it. Gilbert's red eyes were nearly unmistakable, no matter how much he altered the rest of his appearance.

Those damnable smirking eyes were the same, yes, and Gilbert's neutral expression split into a grin as he stared at the door, as if he knew Matthew was watching him through the peep hole.

As Matthew opened the door, instead of greeting him like any other normal person would, Gilbert thrust a handful of mail at Matthew, his grin growing larger as Matthew's eyes widened when the bunch of envelopes hit his chest. "You got a magazine this time," Gilbert said unhelpfully, as if the Canadian was unable to see the thing that was twice as large as the rest of his mail.

"Oh." Matthew reached up awkward, prying the mail from Gilbert's hand, looking it over curiously. He didn't receive things other bills very often, but this magazine was nothing but a boring modern art book. He wasn't really surprised – he had been receiving them for a long time, though he could never remember signing up for such a service. The thing would only take up space in his apartment as long as he kept it around. "These things are never very good."

Gilbert shrugged, and his shoulders almost rose higher than Matthew's slouched form. "I don't know a lot about art," he admitted. Matthew raised an eyebrow at the confession; Gilbert certainly seemed like the artistic type. He would be able to fit in very easily to the… artistic crowd at the events his agent often dragged Matthew off to, unlike the Canadian himself, who felt like a sore thumb among his fellow artists. "My brother's boytoy– oh, I mean good friend," he snorted, as if that was some great joke to him, "is an artist. And I still don't know shit."

Matthew didn't really know what to say to that. He wasn't exactly comfortable with admitting to Gilbert his assumptions about him, nor did he want to laugh along with whatever Gilbert thought was funny, just in case the other man thought he was trying too hard. So, instead, he offered, "Would you… Do you want to come in?"

Gilbert smiled, wide and slow, and said, "Finally. I thought you'd never ask."

"It's not that great," Matthew said quickly as he stepped aside and Gilbert walked by him. He felt inordinately nervous, for whatever reason, though he didn't exactly understand why. Sure, Gilbert was the only one who had entered his apartment for a reason than work or a family obligation, but surely that wasn't something to be overly nervous about. Perhaps he was overreacting a bit, but he couldn't deny the fact that his heartbeat had picked up a little bit as he noticed Gilbert looking over his apartment, taking in his few personal possessions. "I mean, it's a place to live."

"Take a breath, kid," Gilbert laughed, the sound making the hairs on the back of Matthew's neck stand to attention. He looked amused as he peeked over his shoulder, and Matthew quickly tried to wipe the frown off his face. He wouldn't want to make the wrong impression. "I have the same apartment, remember?"

Matthew had forgotten, in fact. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, playing a mantra in his head, telling himself to calm down over and over and over again. He watched from the background as Gilbert crossed the room, heading towards the mostly finished painting. He had his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, looking almost disturbingly at home, as though he owned the place as much as he did his own apartment.

Matthew wished he could feel half as comfortable as Gilbert looked.

"Man, this is so awesome," Gilbert said, bending down in front of the painting. He looked over his shoulder, flashing Matthew a little grin. "You could do this for a living."

The Canadian felt his lips twitch in response, and he almost let them curve completely, but he ended up adjusting the glasses perched on his nose instead. For someone who didn't deal with art very often, Gilbert was giving the piece an awful lot of attention. Not even Alfred pretended to care that much, nor did his agent. Alfred only came for the food he knew Matthew would prepare for him and the aforementioned family obligation, and his agent dropped by occasionally to give him his monthly commission. He honestly wasn't that popular. Whenever he did meet with his friends, the few that he had, it was always out somewhere, nowhere near his crappy little apartment. Gilbert paying special attention to his work made him… feel good, kind of. "I do."

Gilbert's expression shifted into one akin to confusion. "Do what?"

"I paint portraits," Matthew explained patiently. "I do it for a living. Professionally." He left Gilbert's side and went to sit on the couch, folding his hands in his lap as he watched Gilbert turn in all different directions, looking at the portrait from multiple angles.

As if he still didn't understand it, Gilbert looked back and forth between Matthew and his painting as he observed. "You get paid to paint?" he asked, flicking a thumb at the portrait behind him as he met Matthew's gaze.

"Yes," Matthew nodded. "But not him. I just saw him one day and wanted to paint him."

"That's awesome!" Gilbert exclaimed, his grin widening to near impossible size. "You must be a prodigy or something!"

"Not really," Matthew said modestly, shrugging. This time, he couldn't stop the little grin that spread across his lips. He had never really thought of himself that way, but… If he was a prodigy, no one had ever told him so. Alfred was the prodigy in their family; he was able to play sports as well as he was able to breathe air. He was the one who had gotten a scholarship. Matthew had had to sell his painting to pay his way through college. "I just really like to paint."

"Very awesome," Gilbert said approvingly. He reached a hand out, his finger a mere few centimetres away from touching the painting, but he pulled it back at the last second. Matthew caught a glimpse of a little smile on his face before he turned his head away again. "Is it safe to keep the cereal next to the paint thinner like this?" he asked curiously.

Matthew shrugged. "It hasn't hurt me yet."

"So I guess I can't smoke in here?" Gilbert fingered something box-shaped in the front pocket of his jeans, looking over at Matthew, raising a single eyebrow questioningly.

Matthew shook his head. "It will stick to the paintings," he said. "It's a bad habit, anyway." Having Gilbert in the middle of the room was making him more and more nervous by the second. "Do you want something to drink?" Matthew offered. "I have water and milk. And…" he thought for a second. "And orange juice."

Gilbert seemed to take the hint and strode over to the couch. The belts he wore clinked together as he walked, just like the first time Matthew had met him, but he had traded his boots in for a pair of worn red sneakers. If he weren't so interesting to look at, Matthew would have wanted to paint him. He wasn't like anyone Matthew had ever tried to capture before, and it would be an intriguing challenge, he was sure.

But as soon as Gilbert fell back into the worn cushions in a relaxed slouch, Matthew jumped up, skittish. Gilbert only smiled at him, as though Matthew had told him a joke. "You don't have any beer?" he asked.

Matthew's nose wrinkled. "I don't drink."

Gilbert shook his head slowly, bemused. "What a shame," he said, snorting in amusement, his expression shifting into something a little more cocky. "How can you not drink? Beer is the most awesome thing on the planet – next to me, of course." He paused for a moment, looking sideways for Matthew's reaction, but the Canadian was hardly amused. Whatever spiel Gilbert had wanted to go into had been stopped in its tracks, and Gilbert's lips clamped shut. "Okay, then. Orange juice it is."

That was Matthew's choice, too, but he managed not to say that aloud. He didn't want to feel like any more of an antisocial loser than he was probably already coming across to be. "Okay. Well…" He had thrown the mail on the coffee table when he had followed Gilbert into the room, and he looked at it briefly. "I have a magazine if you want to read it."

Gilbert's laughter followed him into the kitchen.

He fumbled his way through the cabinets to grab some glasses, quickly filling them almost to the brim. Matthew had no idea what to say, or what to do. He just hoped the drink would be able to distract Gilbert from conversation until Matthew thought it was an appropriate time to kick him out. When he brought the drinks back out, Gilbert was flipping through the magazine, humming to himself thoughtfully.

Matthew set the drinks down on the table – without coasters, because he didn't want to come across as a neat freak – and Gilbert looked up, grinning. "You're so much better than the people in here."

"I'm not that great." Matthew hated talking about himself, and he tried to turn the topic of conversation away from his own life. "What do you do?"

Gilbert shrugged, picking up his juice and sipping at it. "I own a record store a few blocks down from here. Shoddy Records… you should come by sometime."

Matthew's face broke into a small smile without him meaning to. "I've seen that before," he said. "It's over by the art supply store, right?"

"Yeah, that's it." Gilbert seemed honestly surprised that he knew about the place at all. "Man, you really do have a good memory. I have _regulars _calling me up for directions sometimes." He took another sip of his drink, ending up with a wet smear of orange juice across his upper lip. "Records are a dying breed, you know. I get a lot of DJs, though, and I sell all types of music. It's great." He pinned Matthew with a serious look. "Seriously, you should drop by sometime. I'll find you something, on the house."

"I don't listen to a lot of music," Matthew replied. He didn't listen to any music at all, but he didn't see any point in admitting that.

Gilbert snorted. "That's bullshit. You have to listen to _something_."

Matthew shrugged. "I work better with silence."

"In this city? There's no such thing."

Gilbert had a point, Matthew supposed. He considered it as he sipped at his own glass of juice. He hoped that he didn't end up with an orange juice mustache just as Gilbert had. Now that would have been embarrassing. "Back in the art school," he said thoughtfully, tapping his chin as he remembered, "my roommate listened to the Cranberries a lot. I liked that, kind of."

"Not bad," Gilbert conceded. "Who else?"

Matthew worried his lip. "I guess I liked Cheap Trick."

Gilbert laughed, though Matthew figured he wasn't exactly laughing _at _him. At least, he hoped not. "So, you're into the classics, hmm? How old are you?"

"Ah, twenty-four. And you?"

"Twenty-eight," Gilbert answered. He set his glass down on the table. "It took me a few years to get a good apartment like this – even if it is pretty shitty either way. I used to sell mixed tapes to high school kids and DJ lame parties just to make ends meet." He let out a short laugh, though Matthew didn't detect any amusement within. "I guess you could say I was a starving artist."

That certainly wasn't an alien concept to Matthew. "I know how you feel," he said. "I had to do the same thing with my paintings when I went through college."

"It must have been easy," Gilbert said, and if there was any bitterness in his tone at all, Matthew couldn't hear it. "I bet someone would pay thousands for that painting over there."

"That piece doesn't really have any monetary value," Matthew objected. "Especially because–" He was cut off as a large hand landed on the top of his head, tangling his wavy hair within the fingers.

"That was a compliment," Gilbert said, though he didn't move his hand. Matthew thought he could feel his hair being lifted and rubbed between curious fingers. He also thought he heard Gilbert mutter a quiet "wow, soft" under his breath, but he might have imagined that part.

"Okay. Um…" When was the last time someone had given him an honest compliment? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember how to respond properly, either.

Gilbert tried for an encouraging smile, but it looked out of place on his face. "You say thanks, I saw you're welcome, I ask meaningless questions about your family – you don't do this very often, do you?"

That was the understatement of the century. "Not really, no," Matthew admitted. "Thank you for the compliment."

Gilbert snickered. "A bit belated, but yeah, you're welcome."

The Canadian shifted away from Gilbert, prompting the man to remove his hand from Matthew's head. Instead, he threw himself back into the couch cushions, while Matthew crawled to the corner farthest away from Gilbert. Of course, as he always seemed to do, Gilbert took the initiative in starting the next conversation. "So," he began. "You don't smoke, you don't drink… how do you feel about vandalism?"

Matthew's eyebrows rose. "Are you joking?" he asked. Maybe his neighbour really was crazy, and was planning on tearing apart Matthew's apartment and leaving him for dead. And maybe that was a little bit of an exaggeration. "Why would I vandalize anything?" Okay, so he _had _vandalized something, just once. In a fit of passive-aggressive anger, he had turned the wall of his old high school into a mural when they had taken away the art program, but that had only happened once. And Gilbert didn't need to know that.

Gilbert only shrugged in response. "People do crazy things when they're bored, man." Or when they want to prove a point, Matthew thought. Gilbert looked around the apartment, as if searching for another topic of conversation, and his gaze stopped on the clock hanging above his archway. His eyes widened slightly. "Aw, shit," he muttered. "I gotta go. Duty calls, y'know?"

Matthew told himself he wasn't disappointed. "Okay."

Gilbert grinned as he got to his feet. "But hey, I can stop by sometime again, right? I mean, this was cool, yeah?"

"Sure." Matthew stood up as well, eye level with the bridge of Gilbert's nose. He figured the man was about an inch taller than he was when he stood at his full height. He wouldn't know cool if it bit him in the ass, but if Gilbert had considered his awkward encounter 'cool,' then who was he to say otherwise? But if he was being honest with himself, he was surprised to find that he had actually enjoyed having someone else around. "It was nice."

The two of them stood awkwardly for a moment. Matthew wanted to point out that Gilbert hadn't finished his orange juice – the guy really didn't look like he got enough vitamin C – but he didn't want to seem anal. So, instead, he started for the door, Gilbert following after him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Matthew caught Gilbert glancing at him repeatedly as they crossed the room.

When he opened the door, Gilbert hesitated. "I guess I'll see you around…?" he trailed off, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. When Matthew simply nodded, he waved and turned into the hallway, heading towards the elevator.

Matthew was caught between relief and disappointment as he shut the door, leaning against it as he let out a deep breath.

He was going to buy a book on being social tomorrow.


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